I can count on my fingers the boys with rough hands traveling up my skirt with their tongues down my throat that only knew how to destroy girls. I can close my eyes and see the girls with soft skin that smelt of cheap wine that spoke the sweetest words to me, but only wanted me as their secret or play toy.
I have started to self destruct, beating my fists on walls until they turn black and blue because I can no longer stand on my own with with these hollow bones and broken lungs.
I try and not think of you when the chorus picks up in that song or when the sun kisses the sky goodnight before it sleeps or when I'm staring at the bottom of the bottle but you're there you're there you're there
and there have been pills and pills and pills prescribed for my failing heart, but I've been smoking my cigarettes not giving a **** about the bomb about to go off inside me. My skin has become tighter around my chest, counting ribs like the days you'd told me you'd stay.
I fell for you again but I am always the other girl I am second I am last I am nothing
I find love in straight lines and giving away the parts of me that should only be for you or for me but my body is not a temple and you are not going to worship it, so why should I?
My first meal in weeks was a bottle of my moms prozac and I found myself behind the wheel driving past the bus stop where you first told me you loved me, not realizing what those three words meant to me. Why my foot pressed down on the gas and why I turned down your street will always make me question my sanity, but I closed my eyes until I heard sirens and your voice whispering my name.
I miss the comfort in your voice, but if you look at the moon and think of her too, leave me at the side of the road like so many before have because I am tired of being the other girl and I am tired of feeling trapped in three words that mean far too much to me.